


hung upon the wall for the world to see

by fracturedvaels



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Depression, Gen, Modern AU, Past Suicide Attempt, Photography, mentions of self harm, suicidal character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 07:50:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4598733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fracturedvaels/pseuds/fracturedvaels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Garrett has a peculiar way of dealing with Carver's pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hung upon the wall for the world to see

**Author's Note:**

> for partyinthecloudkingdom on tumblr, yr a good one kiddo

Garrett calls it his “Happy Place.”

Carver had asked him once, when he was younger and stupid and not certain the world was collectively mocking him. “Why do you call it that?” And he’d stared at photo after photo of himself looking awful as Brother sorted through a stack.

“Because these are the cutest pictures I could find of you,” he said, with that same tone he had when he was cracking a joke. _It’s a funny thing_ , he seemed to say. _I’m using it for a laugh._

There was nothing cute in it. It weighed 30 lbs (Bethany checked), and really shouldn’t have been staying together like it did. Every few weeks, Garrett would carefully dig through it, adding more photos to it.

Carver doesn’t understand. He tried to go through it once, because Brother told him to, and he’d only gotten through the first two pages. There were dozens of photos on each side - of Carver, making faces, making gross faces, generally looking awful. Carver realized immediately this was as anything else was with him: a joke, made to make Carver look ridiculous, and like all other pranks pulled on him it succeeded.

It was a testament to _Brother’s_ patience, obviously. Some long con. Carver grew more and more annoyed every time he remembered it existed. Attempts to destroy or dispose of it had failed, though - even the time Carver had taken it out of the house, driven ten miles north and chucked it into a stranger’s bins, it had somehow made it’s way back to the house.

It was cursed. And heavy. And ugly.

Just like Carver.

“Stupid thing,” he muttered, even now, looking at Brother splayed out next to it on his bed. He’d fallen asleep adding more photos to it; it had become a weekly ritual by now, because he always had his camera with him and Carver found himself the subject far more than he liked.

Still, there was a reason they weren’t supposed to store it in high places. The fridge still suffered for it, carrying an irreparable dent in the top. There was a dip in one of the counter tops where it had been left for three months, and the stove had had to be replaced after Mother had made the mistake of storing it in the cabinet over top and it had decided to fall down.

Carver didn’t want to know what horrible risk that having the book remain on Brother’s bed would do, so he walked silently across the bedroom toward it, reaching a hand out.

And he stopped.

And he _looked_. Because oh. _Oh._

They where _his_ photos. They were - pictures. Of Carver. Not sneering. Not mid-sneeze. Not pulling the ugliest faces he could. Pictures of him smiling - though they were older, Carver couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled. Pictures of them at the carnival when it’d been a thing. Ones of Carver back when he went out with his friends, more; the more he dug, the more pictures of what he’d call his happy memories surfaced. He found himself flipping through it as Garrett had asked him to, months ago.

They measured years, it seemed. Aging as he did, the smiles turning to contemplative scowls or blank looks. And there were a few Carver wished had never been taken; ones of him in the hospital, wearing a dull expression as he stared out beyond the fenced grounds. His arms remained in his lap in all of them, the ruined flesh of his forearms pressed to his thighs, trying to hide the cuts that had landed him there and the bracelet declaring him a patient.

Looking at them, looking at himself from this angle - he didn’t feel strange. He didn’t see the bitterness that he knew he’d felt when they were being taken. He looked apathetic, mostly, but he looked nice.

Carver cast a glance at his sleeping brother. _Stupid bastard,_ he thought, and considered kicking him awake, demanding answers. He looked back at the book and the pictures, found himself reaching up and scrubbing away tears. _Stupid_ , he thought, and he didn’t know if he meant himself or Garrett.

Carver decided not to move the album off the bed. He didn’t know what it was he was feeling; like an intruder, mostly, even though he’d been invited to look at the album loads before. He felt like he’d been prying into his own damn life.

But it was more than that. He felt guilty, suddenly, for his own misery; he wondered how that must look outside the flattering view of the lens. Still though… not even _that_ felt right to say. It was a weirdness that pressed heavy in his stomach, and as he entered his room, shut the door and moved to lay on his bed, he realized it.

Or, not realized. Came to terms with it. He was important, to someone. Years of feeling like the mistake of the family, the accident of birth (for surely his being was an accident; Bethany should’ve been there first, should’ve been the only one there), some weird weight around his family’s wrists… but he didn’t feel that now.

He felt whole. Odd. Like he mattered. He was horrified to find he didn’t want that feeling, it was foreign in his mind and felt as invasive as a virus.

But he couldn’t flush it out, or the warmth he felt from it. He mattered, to someone. Even if just to his brother. He mattered. What Garrett couldn’t say to him in words he’d tried to give to him through what he knew best, photos.

He couldn’t help it. He felt selfish, for doing it, but it happened; Carver buried his face into his pillows, trying to smother the stupid smile that was forming. It felt good, to matter. It felt good.

**Author's Note:**

> send me anonymous prompts at http://liviuserimond.tumblr.com/


End file.
